


Nighttime Sky

by spookyawards_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Angst, Domestic, F/M, Post-Season 9 (X-Files), Short
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-09-23
Updated: 2003-09-23
Packaged: 2019-04-27 07:21:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14420409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spookyawards_archivist/pseuds/spookyawards_archivist
Summary: Vignette set post-The Truth.  Scully and Mulder's wonderings on past, present, future and life choices.





	Nighttime Sky

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Spooky Awards](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Spooky_Awards), and was moved to the AO3 as part of the Open Doors project in 2018. I tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are the creator and would like to claim this work, please contact me using the e-mail address on [SpookyAwards' collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/spookyawards/profile).

 

Nighttime Sky

## Nighttime Sky

### by Starla Dear

Title: Nighttime Sky  
Author: Starla Dear Category: V/ A  
Rating: PG-13 for language (though I am not thinking this is going to attract many kids)  
Keywords: Scully Angst, William, MSR  
Spoilers: William, The Truth   
Archiving: Please! I would be honored beyond measure. Disclaimer: Chris Carter, FOX, Duchovny, Anderson and probably many, many shareholders own the characters and everything else about the X-Files. This is just therapy for my post-traumatic stress resulting from the end (or the ending) of the show. 

Summary: Vignette set post-The Truth. Scully and Mulder's wonderings on past, present and life choices, sort of... 

* * *

The house is warm, too warm, in a concession to her normally too cold feet. She usually prefers it that way, but tonight with the long shadows erasing the familiar spaces and the oppressive silence, the air just feels thick and musty and she's suffocating. She slips her shoes on at the door and opens it just wide enough to squeeze through while holding her breath. If she's infinitely careful, the door won't move far enough to trigger the groan of the old hinges. She knows she'll be lucky to make it to the end of the driveway before his hand starts searching the covers for her in his sleep. Another five minutes and he'll be conscious enough to mentally acknowledge her absence. 

She doesn't know why she keeps doing this - leaving in the middle of the night, veering off of the gravel road and into the straggling woods. This glade of trees couldn't by any stretch of the imagination be considered a forest, but from where she stands, it may as well go on forever. This may be the whole world. Maybe if she walks far enough, she will just fall right off. 

Maybe that's why she walks. 

This is the perfect kind of night for her wandering. The air is cool enough to require one of his long-sleeved tee shirts, yet warm enough to still wear her cotton shorts and a pair of flip-flops. Hot, humid days are long gone. A light breeze shimmies through the trees and the fireflies float in no particular direction around her. These are the nights when she can close her eyes, tip her head back and pretend she's back in DC meandering through the park on one of the very first days of autumn. These are the nights where she can physically feel the breeze coming off of the Potomac and teasing at the few wisps of hair that don't make it into the ponytail. 

She's sure he is systematically searching the house by now, checking for her purse and making sure the car is still in the garage. He's feeling just a tinge of worry, a whisper of fear. But she just can't care about that right now. 

She dips the toes of one foot into the almost motionless stream for a moment. She imagines a larger river, with calm waters overlaying a deceptively strong current, and what it would be like to just lie back and float away. What would it feel like to let the water lap against her skin, the current running swiftly under her back, her arms spread wide, while she rests gently on the buoyant liquid, trusting the river her to take her to wherever she is meant to be? 

But the water in this tiny stream is icy cold, and not nearly strong enough to carry her into oblivion, so she dries her foot on the soft grass and sits down on the bank. It's cool and soft and she leans back on her arms and feels luxurious and sensual as the individual blades of grass tickle her ankles and forearms. She closes her eyes and is home again, trying to see the stars through the city lights, looking for constellations and wondering what her future will bring. She's drinking in the innocence of her younger self - the Dana that didn't know what the future was, the girl that thought she could change the future. 

Right now she could almost believe she's walking the distance from her car to her Georgetown apartment, wondering whether it's too early to buy a pumpkin and knowing she won't buy one, because what's the point? She never liked carving those things anyway and it will only rot while she and Mulder are off chasing man-eating mutants in some potato field in Idaho. 

She can't help but smile at that. Is it possible to feel nostalgic about human monsters? Or even potato fields in Idaho, for that matter? 

Her younger self decides that this year she absolutely will be home to pass out candy to trick-or-treaters and she will make the home-made cranberry salad that requires all that grating of cranberries by hand, just like her grandmother used to. She'll probably end up complaining that it's just not as good as last year's, which is also what grandma used to do. And that smoking bastard can kiss her ass, because she will not be hunting down bounty hunters or searching any abandoned warehouses for extra-terrestrialized oil. She will finish her turkey and cranberry salad, goddamnit! 

In spite of her reticence, though, she is eventually pulled from the Thanksgiving table, from the laughter she once knew, from her nephew's fussiness at being given milk instead of wine and from her mother's delighted grin at having her children safely in the nest once again. She excuses herself from the table and joins her older, wiser self. How can she stay away when she feels him coming for her? 

She doesn't hear him yet. He's still too far away, but she feels the dissonance between the calling of her name and the indigenous sounds of her sanctuary. His voice is pounding against the quiet fluidity of the nighttime air, disturbing the equilibrium and causing ripples of energy to roll over her. He'll be here soon, but she doesn't go to him. She can't. She won't. 

Her memory takes her once again and she's sitting on a bench in front of a monument. The white-blue light is reflecting off the water and casting shadows over her lap. She snuggles her son in her arms; feels the completeness of the union. He is her. She is him. She revels in the absolute innocence of the trust he has for her. She is awe-struck by his inherent belief in his own safety - in her ability to protect him. It is this belief that allows him to relax so completely in her arms, yet it is the one thing she cannot truly promise him. His miniature muscles are slack; his breath is deep and strong. She lifts him and kisses the top of his head, whispers the words of a song she knows, and promises him through those words that her love will follow him and surround him and exist within him forever. She breathes in a huge breath, smelling his baby sweat and `no-more-tears' shampoo. She holds the air in her lungs, refuses to exhale, hoping that the tiny molecules of him, of his scent and his sweat and his carbon dioxide, will seep into her very cells. She wants the atoms to merge with her own DNA, to be bound by the proteins in her blood, to skitter across the electrical impulses in her brain. 

Her awareness returns to find her partner sitting on the bank with his legs on either side of hers, leaning his face into the side of her neck and wrapping his big arms around her body. He's radiating heat and fear and relief and love. Her muscles relax as she nestles into her partner's chest and puts her faith and her trust in him - in them. She slips from her past and into her present, now the one being held rather than the one holding. He whispers words of love and comfort and hope in her ear, words that promise once love has been given it is never truly lost. 

And beyond all reason she feels safe now, safe enough to let out the breath she has been holding. It rushes from her lungs, slides past her lips and stumbles into the night air. It is William's air and her air, the indestructible elements of their physical beings joined together and swirling around herself and her partner, William's father. He breathes deeply with her: in and out, sharing himself and taking her and William in. "He is in us, Scully. He is in us and we are in him." She knows this. They breathe together and they are one. 

* * *

She is vaguely aware of being carried away from her seat on the cool grass of the riverbank. She's moving slowly under the clear, dark sky, drifting further from her reverie, from the demons she's been facing tonight. She had wanted that. To let the river carry her away from the rustling leaves and the clean night air, to let it wash away her guilt and her pain and cleanse the violations that have been visited on her soul. To float into oblivion. She had wanted to surrender to those waters, allowing only the current and the stars and the half-hidden moon to determine her course. 

But it isn't the river that carries her. It is a pair of strong arms and a warm chest. They cradle her now in their safe cocoon - just as she had once, for the briefest of moments, cradled William, her son. Her beautiful, innocent, vulnerable son. How could he know he would never have been safe in the comfortable circle of her arms? He couldn't have known those warm, soothing hands could never truly protect him - that they would hand him over to another, if only to give him what he already believed he had. A safe haven. His own mother, the one he should have been able to trust above all others, had betrayed him. Betrayed him to save him. But betrayed him, still. Oh, God! 

She feels the gentle slide of Mulder's fingers through her hair and the vibrations of his low-pitched hum of comfort against her. She can hear the rhythmic crunch of his feet on the gravel and she is being slowly rocked by his gentle gait. His love is palpable. The heat of it warming her chilled skin, the thickness of it surrounding her body where his arms cannot. And she allows herself to revel in that for now. She trusts him implicitly, feels unreasonably safe in his embrace. This is not the trust of a child. Rather, it is born of tears and loss and through violent battles fought together. It has been tested by fire, forged by the scathing heat that left their faith in each other stronger and more pure than ever before. 

They share themselves through silent communication. She takes his love and his comfort and his hope. He takes her sorrow and her determination and her faith. They complete each other without consciousness, giving what is needed, taking what is desired. He's amazed by the intimacy a simple walk under the moon can bring. He feels her body shake, but her muscles are limp. Her head lolls against him and her tears christen his skin. They burn a path down his chest, following the trail of the scar that can no longer be seen, but will never stop hurting. 

He hopes that this tiny river of saline is scorching his body visibly, too. He wants the evidence of what has happened, of how They ripped away so much of his heart. But like so much evidence before, it has disappeared. It was taken away with the son he didn't know to hope for, with whom he only shared a few breaths. 

He hates that whoever took him didn't even let him keep the scar, that one tangible bit of proof of how very much was stolen from him - from them. He despises the men who have worked in the shadows, freely violating both he and Scully's minds and bodies, offering his family as a sacrifice to Their hidden agenda. He's not even sure who They are anymore. All he is sure of, is his irreparable loss. He wants to destroy Them, to ruin Them like so many of his dreams, to leave Them feeling as violated as he and Scully feel. 

The only way he knows to do that is to expose those men. To shine the light of truth and let Them burn in it. 

He knows now that Scully was right, not that either of them could find much comfort in it. They were no longer safe in their former lives. He knows why she gave his son away, separating him permanently from someone his soul aches to know. He was never going to be able to return to Scully and William. He was never going to be free to protect his little family. And even if he had been there, it wouldn't have been enough. These forces are too powerful. And William was too precious to risk. 

He and Scully can be sacrificed for the cause - they had made that choice. But William, he will not sacrifice William. Not like his father sacrificed Samantha or Spender sacrificed his wife. This he would not do. Yes, there are those who believe William is some sort of Messiah, but he knows that William is really just a child. His son. Born of Scully's womb. As a father, he only hopes that his son will grow in safety and choose his own path. And if William is a kind of Messiah, he knows his son will make the right choices. This he can be fully confident in, because William is his mother's son. His mother - a warrior for the truth, fighting with more courage and strength than any person he's ever known. 

And even as he knows this, his heart breaks for the truth of it. It turns out that there are some truths he wouldn't rather know. He doesn't want to know that she may never forgive herself for doing the only thing she could. He doesn't want to know that in her heart she harbors not only love for him, but guilt for depriving him of his son and anger for him having left her and grief that comes from knowing exactly what it is to lose him in death. He doesn't want to know that this heartache is but a drop of water in the ocean of despair coming on a date he may be powerless to prevent. And he doesn't want to know that William may be the key to it all, that his son may be anything more than his precious baby boy. 

Her tears have long since passed and she leans against him, spent and weary. His fallen warrior. She is far from defeated, but in need of rest. He carries her into the warmth of their temporary home, the blanket-tossed sanctuary of their sparse bedroom. He gently lifts her legs onto the bed, lays her head against the soft cotton and whispers whatever words his mouth decides to say. You are my warrior Scully. You are Truth, Scully. You are Love and Faith. You didn't betray him; you gave him a chance. You gave him life and hope. I'm sorry, Scully. 

He knows they can't stay here. They can't hide in the woods and wait for the end. The time here has been necessary, but nearly too long. They can no longer linger, but must begin their journey again. There are new groups of men to fight, new lies to expose and he feels like they are starting over from the beginning. It is daunting. It is terrifying. 

It will be so much harder this time. They can't go into the fight with high-principled innocence, as they did before. They have lost the right to be surprised by the cost of their mission. They have lost the authority of their position, what little protection was once afforded by their employers, and any anonymity they may have once had. But they also have more reason than ever to fight this war. It is more vital than ever that they are successful. Scully was right, he can't quit. He won't. But he needs his warrior. 

He had assumed she was sleeping these last few minutes. Her breathing has been deep and strong. But she turns her head to him now and opens her eyes to look steadily into his. Her clear blue eyes are not glazed in despair as he had expected, but are alight with the fire that comes only from the searing flames of justice. "Mulder, it's time. I want truth for all of us. I want justice brought to those who propagate the lies, who sacrifice the innocent for their own selfish purpose. I want vengeance for those who have been stolen from us. And I want hope for William." 

He simply breathes in and nods his head once. His warrior has found her way back. 

**END**

* * *

Author's Notes: Thanks so much to Sarah for the beta. I am very, very grateful. 

\---Starla 

As before, the title is a nod to Janis Joplin from her song `Half Moon'. 

"Half moon, nighttime sky  
Seven stars, heaven's eyes  
Seven stars on seven seas  
Just to bring all your sweet love home to me. You fill me like the mountains.  
You fill me like seas.  
Not coming past, but still at last,  
Your love brings life to me." - Janis Joplin 

Feedback: I would love and adore it! Go on and let me have it - good, bad, indifferent - bring it on! I'll just be pleased as (rum) punch if anyone even reads it!   
  


#### If you enjoyed this story, please send feedback to Starla Dear


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